


London Face Case

by RachaelW



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachaelW/pseuds/RachaelW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock reappears keeps bothering me. I can't believe Moriaty just died without setting any traps for Sherlock, and here it is, a trap and puzzle based on the whole urban structure of London, carried out by Moran to seduce this "might-be-dead" detective out. John tried to help Scotland Yard with those mysterious messages, and a final battle of fire, feather and heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Face Case

The city of London

1\. Farewell Party  
It was his farewell party, and Doctor Watson didn’t want to screw it up.  
Everything went well, splendid actually. He got a new job in London Bridge Hospital, soon earned a reputation in his professional field, and got a loan to set up his own clinic at Old Broad Street 10 months later. When decorating his new office through whose window he could see Bart’s old building and those streets he was once so familiar with in his college days, Doctor Watson almost believed his life just went a circle and now set back to some sort of better square one, although deep down he knew it was not true.  
It was not true even he hadn’t seen people who made his life different for long, long enough to forget or be forgotten. They disappeared in his life all of a sudden just as how they entered it. He racked his brain to think up every word, every movement and the tiniest facial expression or hidden tone in his few touches with them, that was his only comfort in the first several months when he woke up in his wet and cold single apartment at midnight, knowing he would see those people no more. One day he saw Anderson in the street. He froze. Anderson turned and saw him, too, then swiftly walked around the corner and disappeared. That was the time when he knew they avoided getting in touch with him, too, like some sort of secret deal. They, Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Anderson, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, everyone. They were almost friends, relatives, some wonderful intimate relationships between he and people he barely knew. And he lost the chance to get to know them once for all.   
He remembered the day he went back to his work and met Sarah on the doorway. She kissed him softly on the cheek. When the kiss ended, he saw her beautiful eyes welled up with tears. That day he resigned that job and returned to his basement apartment, deciding to cut off every linkage with his past.  
The decision was not easy, yet the least difficult one he could make for himself. He had to follow it to his best.  
One week later he got a job in London Bridge Hospital, the best position he could possibly dreamed of yet hardly remembered to have applied for. He turned it down. The next day he received an e-mail without sender or title. The content was simply “please”.  
Doctor Watson didn’t sleep that night. He just walked to the park. When his leg began to hurt, he sat down and stared into darkness, despite of the heavy dew in late autumn or his worn sweater. The next day he enrolled at London Bridge Hospital, met new colleagues, made new jokes, saw new patients and tried new restaurants.   
That was it, John Watson’s new life. He behaved nicely and worked so hard. He won himself reputation, career prospect and a farewell party from colleagues in London Bridge Hospital, and he was going to enjoy them all. That was the exact reason why he was sitting in this Temple bar where one of his nearest colleagues suggested right now. Everyone said something warm to him and asked him to keep in touch. The drinks were nice and the food delicious, the conversations were comfortable and the jokes funny. Doctor Watson held his breath and tried to maintain a permanent smile just as what he did for the last 12 months; he didn’t want to screw the party at all.

“Hey.” He distracted for too long, almost overlooked the woman sitting beside him who had watched him for more than 15 minutes before finally tried to accost him.  
“Hey.” He replied mechanically, startled from his own thoughts.  
“Hi.” She looked at him with a shy smile, then repeated another “Hi” and wrinkled her nose in a lovely way as if admitting all the courage had abandoned her suddenly.  
“Hi.” John smiles, relaxed. “Nice weather.”  
“Yes.” She wrinkled her nose again. “I’ve seen no better in several weeks.”  
They looked at each other for several seconds, and burst into laughter at the same time.  
The rest of farewell party, John told Amanda stories in hospital, most between doctors and patients, and some between doctors or patients themselves. She laughed at every punch line and widened her big blue eyes admiringly. Finally she comments, “Wow, working in hospital is exciting, isn’t it?”  
Before he realized it, John replied reassuringly, “So as to primary schools.”  
She moved her sight right into John’s eyes slowly, which was rather hard since her sight never left his face during their conversation, somehow she managed it.   
“You are freaking me out.” She said doubtfully. “How did you know my job?”  
John tried to explain, yet couldn’t find a right word to start with before the mud on shoes, trace of glasses around eyes and chalk on fingers, formal dress in a casual bar or the handbag shape suggesting a pile of exercise books inside, and finally, a primary school nearby. “I drank too much.” He said to himself.   
“It’s the first time we meet, right? I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you before.” Now her look was mixed with fear and disgust. “Please let me go; otherwise I’d call the police.”  
She stood up and walked to the door.  
The next second, a boom ripped through not further than half a mile. The sound tore everyone’s eardrums apart.

“Yes, that way is quicker.” John murmured to himself, couldn’t help to remember a voice he never managed to forget, and a bitter smile curved on his lip, when everyone else run to the door as quickly as possible.  
So, the party was screwed up. Doctor Watson gave a soothing smile to the surprised barman, picking out his wallet.

Indeed, that way was quicker. The street was already filled with police cars and police when John walked out of the bar, and ran into a familiar figure. The latter hesitated a little at the sight of him, then spoke to him, “Hi, John.” Taking the chaotic scene into account, Inspector Lestrade’s voice was unusually gentle.  
“Hi.” John replied. They looked at each other.  
Lestrade was apparently trying to make a conversation, which was not easy. “So,” he finally began, “I’m quite occupied here, but…”  
“Yes, I can see that.” John interrupted him, then regretted a bit. Lestrade was a nice guy, very nice to him and other people, indeed. He should not be that rude. “So, see you later?”  
The inspector looked relieved and assured, “Yes, indeed. Do come and visit…” When his earphone came the sound, “Car explosion, dead body in trunk…”  
Scotland Yard? Not likely. John smiled to himself, the second time in a day. He decided to make no reply, just walked past holding a smile.   
“I won’t be surprised if the body was dead before the explosion.” John thought to himself while waiting for the tube at Elephant & Castle station. He just didn’t want to take any cab, at any time, and he knew somehow he would have nightmare that night.  
He did. He dreamed of the fall.  
2\. First Day in a New Job  
“Good morning, Doctor Watson.” His secretary smiled at him.  
John smiled back and quickly walked into his office, began the first day in his own clinic.  
5 minutes later the secretary send a cup of tea in, finding her boss already made tea for himself.   
“Sorry.” They both blurred at the same time. Then the secretary put that today’s newspaper on his desk.  
“Thank you, Miss Wooch.” John added, “Don’t bother with the tea, you’ve done very well.”  
Lestrade’s face was on the headline, embarrass and worried. John glanced at the words below. “The spokesman of Scotland Yard refused to give any explanation on the car explosion of Faraday Garden last night, and claimed the identification of the dead male body was still in process, although much delayed by its damage condition. He also denied the rumor that the body had no nose, yet admitted the man was dead before the car explosion…”  
There was a knock at the door. John put down the papers. It must be difficult for Lestrade, the loss of that man, that genius and freak, was not his own.   
John cleared his thought, got himself collected for a new yet repeated day.

What made the day a little different happened when John left his clinic. He received a call from Lestrade.  
“Hey.” He said.  
“Hey.” Lestrade sounds uneasy. “Could you come to my office for 5 minutes.” He paused, “We want to hear your opinion on last day’s accident.”  
“It was not an accident.” John replied.  
“What?”  
“That was intentional murder, in an accident there is no one to blame.” He found himself saying this.  
“Yes.” Oddly enough the inspector’s voice showed relief. “You see you could give us some help, indeed.”  
A long pause, then John said, “I’m not him.”  
“None of us is.” The reply was quick. “But you know his method, and you know he helped us out of his own will.”  
Yes. John says quietly to himself. He hung up the line, and took a taxi to Scotland Yard.

Sitting at the back seat of a taxi, he felt his friend was so near him again. He missed him so much and thought of him so deeply, even not noticing tears streaming down his own face until the cabbie pulled up the car.  
“Sir, Scotland Yard.”  
“Yes.” He handed him a 20-pound note, left without waiting for change.

“I want to see the body” was his first words to Lestrade. The latter nodded understandingly. “It was in Barts’.” Autopsy, of course. No surprisingly he would see the girl, Molly again there.  
Some part of John Watson began to breathe again, slightly and eagerly from his chest. He felt the blood running warm in his body. It was a war, even the best partner one could possibly had was no longer in company. John would try the best he could.  
“The nose…” He began.  
“No,” Lestrade looked at him, drily said, “There was no nose on the face. Not any bone we could find near the body. It was damaged in the boom, but we are sure the nose was ripped out before it, even before he died.”  
“I dare say the boom was not from inside of the car?”  
Everybody gazed at him now, Donovan, Anderson, new faces he didn’t know.  
“Freak.” Donovan finally said, in a friendly tone.  
John smiled back. “The boom itself was not the aim. The murderer or whoever behind it…” Everyone held his or her breath. “…set the boom to draw our attention to the dead body. He made an effort to make sure we notice it. ”  
“Why?” Anderson asked.  
“It held some information, clearly.” John smiled again, trying not to copy his ex-flatmate’s exact words.  
“What’s that?” He asked unbelievably.  
“Nose.” There was silence in the office, ridiculers, clownish silence. Of course it was nose, or what. Everyone wanted to say something yet found nothing to say, until John broke the silence hopefully, “Did you find anything else?”  
Lestrade smiled bitterly, “Exact question I want to ask you. From our side,” He shrugged, looking tired, “Nothing at all.” Then he looked at John hopefully.  
“I’m going to disappoint him.” John thought, “I’m not that one, I told him and he knew that, but I still disappoint him.”  
In the rest of the day, they examined the car, reported stolen 3 months ago in Menchester, and went to Bart’s, where Molly received them. The girl looked into John’s eyes bravely, lifting the sheet of the dead body with steady hands. The head was in much better condition compared to the rest of it, and apparently the man was dead long before the explosion.  
“Ice.” John said. “The body was preserved in ice, I bet the head was still in ice cube in the explosion, protecting the head and leaving no evidence.”  
“So?”  
“So it was cruel, thoughtfully planned murder, indicating us to the single hint, nose.”   
“What does that mean?” Lestrade looked confused, so was John himself.  
He shook his head, “I don’t know, and I don’t know why the murderer left hint at all.” Then he added, “But with all the effort and hint, I guess this is just beginning.”  
Around him, people exchanged gravely glances.

It was a long day, yet John felt hard to get asleep. On the contrary, he sat before his laptop, looking at the screen where a file named “Him” was opened. He stared into it so hard and so long, his eyes dazzled to tears.  
“You should not die.” He murmured to him, to the documents that were carefully copied from blogs about “him” (as the latter had sharply and proudly pointed out, when John even didn’t bother to deny). There must be a lot more cases before he knew him, should have been much more after.   
“You should not die.” He murmured criticizing. “You should not waste yourself on one criminal. He was just one and you were much more, much better than that. How stupid and selfish are you.”  
“You should not die.” He murmured, voice barely been heard by himself, “Please don’t be… dead.”

John fell asleep sitting there. In his dream he heard some familiar voice and laughter; he forced some stupid people admitting the mistake of not eating regularly, and promising to take doctor’s order.  
3\. Hang Man under London Bridge  
John woke up in the morning, and went to his clinic just in time.  
“Good morning, Doctor Watson.” Miss Wooch smiled at him.  
“Good morning.” He smiled back and walked into his office, carefully placed his mobile phone on the desk.  
Not a single ring that day.

The day after that, he was startle from dream. The phone was ringing. Lestrade said from the other side of the line. “As you said.”  
“I was at work all day long, my secretary and patients can prove that for me.” He was fully awake right away.  
“John,” Lestrade sighed, “we trust you. Come at London Bridge. By tube.”

Thanks to his advice. It was the biggest traffic jam I had ever seen before rush hour in the morning, and obvious getting worse and worse.  
An early runner reported it to the police. There was fog on the river, so he discussed with others for a long time whether that was a body or some plastic waste. If the latter, maybe a call to environmental organization would do. Some clever guy finally came up with the idea that police could dial any organization anyway, which brought police cars, crane and some special rescue persons and John onto London Bridge.  
From the picture he could see, that body was hanged right under the middle of bridge. Preliminary autopsy showed the body was very dead at least 1 week before, and police quickly identify the victim.  
“Ian Dikenson.” Lestrade said when they put on gloves.   
“Which part is missing?” John interrupted him. Dead bodies were just carriers to hints, if the murderer could tie a body to the structure of a 200-meter right under everybody’s nose, the victim’s identity wouldn’t reveal any important clue, of course.  
He got startled a little, then said, “None.”

John understood the graveness in Lestrade’s voice when he saw the body.  
There was no missing piece; on the contrary, the body’s left upper eyelid was knitted upward tightly with medical thread. John bent to examine. The skill was highly professional, that was his entire conclusion. He found it difficult to look into Lestrade’s hopeful eyes.  
“Left eye, this time.” He finally said. “I don’t know what does that mean.”  
“London Eye.” Anderson said impatiently, “London Bridge and eye. It’s obvious.”  
“And the eyelid?” John heard himself inquiring, half hopefully half annoyed.  
“The structure of London Eye, of course.” Anderson had a self-contented smile on his face.  
No, not right, otherwise the knitting would be all around the left eye, not only on upper eyelid. John pointed this out.  
“The murderer is mad, why do you think he would give it a damn?” Anderson looked offended.  
Mad, indeed, but also thoughtful in preparing and carrying out murderers like this, too thoughtful to waste a hint or give out misleading ones. And to John it was quite obvious that whoever the murderer were, all what they really meant to do in those murders was giving out hints. The knitted upper eyelid carried information, and John refused to take the easier but not complete explanation to what he didn’t know.  
For now, he just repeated, “I don’t know.” Lestrade nodded and sent him out.

There must be something, John spoke to himself. He’d find it. He listed all the facts to himself during his way to work in tube.  
1\. Car explosion in Faraday garden.   
2\. Dead body without nose in trunk.  
3\. Man hung beneath London Bridge.  
4\. Eyelid sewed with thread.  
And questions.  
1\. What do nose and eye mean?  
2\. Why does the murder give out hints? To show off, maybe, but why?  
He examined everything in his mind, reaching no significant point.

It was 9:15 when he reached his office. John said a hello without looking at his secretary, walked into his office directly. He got too much things in mind to clear out before work.  
Miss Wooch had already left newspapers and mails on his desk. He put them apart when an envelope drew his notice. It was an advertisement from some map company, promoting shop owners to put their mark on map, and the decorating image on it looked extremely familiar. Then John realized it was a map of Old London he was looking into, and right in the middle of it he saw a giant eye. The name of street rendering the edge of eyelid read—Thread and Needle Street.   
John froze, and mechanically he dialed the number of Lestrade while sight still fixed on the map.  
“The eye,” he said, “There must be something in that eye.”  
Lestrade promised him they would examine it again. In anxious waiting John couldn’t get himself into work. At last he had to ask Miss Wooch to turn off all the appointments. The latter looked at him curiously, but said nothing. Then he found himself searching the case on the Internet. This effort was hardly necessary since all details of this case were hidden from media, yet John found most description of the dead body were surprisingly correct in details.  
That was how it worked, he thought, when the call came.  
“A diamond in his pupil, very tiny that we missed it. How did you know?” After a pause, Lestrade changed his question, “What does that mean?”  
John looked at the Google map, there was a radius image right there, in the middle of the giant eye of Old London where the pupil should be.  
“Leaden Hall Market.” He said, “Check it, quick.”

Lestrade’s team was efficient. Before busy hours of Leaden Hall Market, policemen found 8 bomb under its roof, and 8 in its base. They made a second check, and a third one. Then the market was reopened. Everyone held their breath and waited.   
Nothing happened; it was just another usual day of Old London and Leaden Hall Market. At the end of the day, John, Lestrade and everyone couldn’t help to high-five each other.  
Then Donovan commented, “You did learn a lot from that freak, didn’t you?” She smiled.  
John nodded but didn’t smile, “I don’t see this coming to an end.”  
His words swiped relieved look from everyone’s face and a shaping plan of some celebrating drinks. Everyone looked so miserable now. Then John added, “But it buys us time to rethink what’s going on.” 

He left the market when Lestrade followed him out, with Donovan and surprisingly, Anderson.  
“What do you think of their next move?” Lestrade asked.  
“I don’t know, maybe an ear, or anything.” John shrugged, “And I don’t think we can stop the murders.”  
Before Anderson opened his mouth in disapprove, John explained, “Whoever the victims were, they are cold dead already.” That stopped any further protest from them.  
“So we could do nothing except for the next body turning up?” Donovan finally asked.  
“Yes, hopefully we could have some time before it.”  
“Any specific idea?”  
“Not yet.” He shook his head.

There was silence. Then Lestrade began, “We are worried about you, John.”  
“What for?” He replied rather rudely. He didn’t want to touch that topic, not for now, not at all.  
“You know what we mean.” They exchanged glimpse, “All the murders, they look like Moriaty’s work.”  
In relief John almost burst into laughter, “Of course not, no way. He is dead.”  
“Yes.” Donovan picked her word carefully, “But…”  
“There is no ‘But’,” John examined the worried faced of 3 sergeants in turns, “Sherlock…” He said, and broke up himself. He couldn’t believe he said that name so naturally just now after 12 months’ efforts in avoiding voicing it, and trembled a little for the warmth and pain it brought him. Then he said the name again, his voice firm, “Sherlock…he makes…” John swallowed again. He would correct his grammar mistake, his picky and annoying flat mate. He just couldn’t resist it, could he? “…made sure of it.”  
No one spoke for a moment. Then Lestrade said seriously, “But this obviously aims at you. The murderers knew we’d come to you for help. You are the only person hints could reach except for the police.”  
“And Moriaty tried to kill you twice, remember? Now he wants…” Sensing my look, Donovan changed the way she put it, “his party want to carry on again. That’s logical.”  
“No.” John found himself smiling, almost laughing, “I don’t think any deathly killer would work for dead criminal leader, and do you guys never read papers? The details are posted in full and correct everywhere. The hints could reach anyone they are meant to…” Again, he broke up himself.  
Four people looked at each other inquiringly.   
“Who are they meant to reach, then?” Finally, Anderson voiced the question aloud.   
John’s heart began racing. Could the answer be what he desperately wished for? Part of him couldn’t resist the lure thinking about it, the other part painfully reminded him what he saw on that day. Both ideas lingered in his mind for the rest of that day, and two days after that.   
Day and night, when he closed his eyes, John saw the fall.  
4\. Hang Man under Westminster Bridge  
John didn’t go to work for 2 days. He shut himself at home, only talked to himself, Lestrade and other sergeants. He reviewed every details of the 2 murderer, yet reaching nowhere further.  
The 3rd day, he received a call from Lestrade at 4 o’clock and took a taxi directly to Westminster Bridge. There was no much traffic in the street, and the light cast by police cars was dazzling in darkness.  
Another body hung under bridge, Westminster Bridge this time. The face of it was covered with thick blood. Judging from that, the victim’s right eye was ripped out when he was still alive, that would be 3 days ago. John regretted for what he had said about no need to prevent further killing, and three sergeants avoided eye contact with him during the whole spot examination.  
“London Eye.” Anderson claimed. “Right there, the face was towards it.”  
No one contested with him. John desperately looked up Google map. Another coincidence of eye on map was not likely to appear anywhere, and there was no hint found in autopsy. Anderson sent to body to Bart’s for further examination, and John went to Scotland with other sergeants. There were chatting and phone calls everywhere. Lestrade was delivering mission of bomb check in London Eye and nearby neighborhoods. They expected this time’s mission much more difficult since they succeed once.  
Donovan came to him, “Hey, freak.” She checked papers in her hands, “The victim was missing 1 month ago. The murderer kept him alive for this. There was nothing we could do.” Then she left and set off with other sergeant for bomb check.  
No, John said to himself. If it was Sherlock, things wouldn’t be like this. He wouldn’t let this happen, even he pretended not concerned so well. For so long he forbid himself thinking about him, now the restrained feeling came back again and flowed over him, even more painful and lonely. Oddly enough he found himself capable to say his name, quietly again and again. Did that mean deep down he accepted the death of his crazy and genius partner finally, or the battlefield they had shared together helped to set his true feeling free? The only thing John was sure about was the peaceful and promising life he built up for himself in the last 12 months collapsed faster than he could possibly imagine, and he took it without any difficulty.  
John suddenly stood up. He was never Sherlock, but he was with him. That should be enough for carrying on fighting in any battle field.  
The last bomb check team had just left, John took a taxi to London Eye.  
It was 5 minutes later when he realized the cabbie took a wrong turn.  
“Hey,” He shouted in anger, “Go back right now. Listen, I’m in bloody hurry. Go back right now. I know what you are doing.” He couldn’t hold his voice, it went louder and louder.  
“You do, do you?” The cabbie replied, something in his voice made John’s blood freezing.  
He looked up at the back mirror. There he say the cabbie’s eyes staring into his, with a naughty smile.  
For a second he almost blacked out. Then next thing he did was strangle the cabbie’s neck with his full strength.  
“Hey, we are in traffic.” The cabbie protested, his voice went hoarse under his strangle.  
“And you don’t even have driver license.” John heard himself saying. It was certainly not what he wanted to say most, but he was not prepared for this happening. Anyway, he relieved the cabbie.  
“Of course I have.” He said.  
“And you are no less a bastard.” John said.  
Sherlock turned his head a little and looked back at him directly, a smile still on face, “You took this rather well, I’d say.”  
“Turn back.” John shouted strictly. “We are in traffic.” Then he looked out the window, pretending to watch street view, waiting the tears welled in his eyes to dry into air. It was too risky to wipe off tears when you were sitting behind a detective, the only consulting detective in the world.   
For a moment, John’s brain was booming with all kinds of idea. Then he found a solid ground.  
“You…”He picked words carefully, “You were a cabbie, and a postman, I suppose, or a salesman from map company?”  
Sherlock snorted wearily. To John, the sound he made was more likely a failed attempt to hide a smile. He smiled to himself, too, and the smile froze at Sherlock’s late reply.  
“I was a cabbie once or twice.” He looked back again through the mirror, said in unusual slowness, “If you know what I mean.”  
For God’s the sake, he was not in Sherlock cabbie the first time he went to Scotland Yard a week ago, was he? John dared not to think over this question, when a more disturbing idea came into his mind.  
“Why do you show up?” Then he added “since you enjoy this role playing so well.”  
“Wrong.” The detective said bluntly.  
“What?”  
“You are wild wrong, despite all my efforts. And I’m going to approve it.”  
The car stopped in front of Bart’s.

To John’s surprise, Molly showed no alert when seeing the detective.  
“Did you wash the blood away?” Sherlock asked Molly, the latter was confused.  
“The dead body hung beneath Westminster Bridge.” John explained, these two were hiding something behind him, but he decided to enquiry that later.  
“Well, it was not on my list.” She said, “And we are not allowed to damage any proof, you see.”  
“Proof, could you see and proof on that bloody mask?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  
“Uh…”  
“Of course not, the proof is beneath it.” He said. “Find it and wash it. The murderer waited three days before hanging the body. Why? He needed the blood solidified. Why? Something is beneath.”  
Molly was already running to XX when he finished, “And he didn’t want people to find out easily.”  
“Have an idea what’s going on?” John asked him.  
“No.” He replied, “A theory, actually.”

“My friend is back.” John said to himself with a bigger and bigger smile.  
The next second, they burst into laughter.  
5\. The other eye  
5 minutes later, John received a text from Molly, “Room 302.”  
The body was there, Molly was washing blood off his face. There was nobody else.  
“You’ll get promoted for this.” John comforted her.  
“Before or after I got fired?” She didn’t take it, nor stopped her deed.  
An ugly scar was revealed under blood. They all looked at it. It was around the left eye hole, in the shape of equal-waist triangle.  
“Well, exactly what I’m looking for.” Sherlock put on a self-contentedly smile.  
“What’s that?” Molly asked in astonishment.  
“Right eye of London.” With these words the detective strode to the door. “And you may want to get the face back to its early state.”  
“Why would I want to do that?”  
“To avoid getting fired.” Then he left.  
Molly looked at John. “He just wants to show off with it later.” John couldn’t be more agree. He took a picture of the scar and sent it to Lestrade.

“What’s that?” John asked when he sat back into the taxi again.  
“London Eye.”  
“No, it’s not. Otherwise you won’t be here.”  
“Oh… I thought you were inquiring our next destination.”  
It was a lie, so obvious. “No, you knew exactly what I meant.”  
After a moment he added, “So we are heading to London Eye, just for mocking Lestrade in face. You do know a boom or anything is coming, don’t you?”  
“Of course, but I assure you no hurry in this case.”  
However ridiculous the reply was, John found himself trusting this man. So he just sat back, closed his eyes for a short break. A habit left from his troop years.   
Then he opened his eyes suddenly, quickly enough to catch Sherlock’s staring from back view mirror. “At least you could show off your theory to me now.” He knew Sherlock was not likely to resist it.  
But the detective didn’t follow. On the contrary, he said, “Or you could tell me yours, so I won’t waste time listening to other idiots.” Unlike the words, his tone was rather encouraging. And oddly enough, John didn’t really mind the words.  
“You know everything already.”  
“Not everything. I don’t know how you could possibly go wrong.” The detective said, “Now, start from beginning.”

“Well, if you insist,” John had already seen mocking from Sherlock afterward, however he made himself begin. “The first body was found in a car explosion. The murderer carefully preserved the head to give out a hint of nose.”  
“Yes. Go on.”  
“The second body was hung beneath London Bridge. The upper eyelid on the left side was knitted, and a diamond was hidden in the pupil. That gave the hints of street names and place.”  
“Yes. Good.”  
“The third body was hung beneath Westminster Bridge. The right eye was ripped out, and there was a triangle scar around the eyehole.”  
“And?”  
“And I thought that meant London Eye.”  
“Because?”  
“That was all I could think up.”  
“Excellent, excellent indeed.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes.  
“Except for I missed all the important hints?”  
“Well, now as you’ve said that, yes.” Sherlock put on a self-contented smile. “Faraday Garden, where the explosion took place if I may remind you of, has another name of Elephant & Castle, which later became the official name of that zone. And as you kindly mentioned, the murderer left the body in trunk, which is...”  
“Elephant’s nose…” John began to follow.  
“Yes. Now you get it.”  
“Get what?”  
“John, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock said wearily, “Think.”  
An idea came into John’s mind, in the image of the map advertisement left by some funny role-play salesman. “Map.” He murmured.  
“Map, yes. Whatever message left in dead bodies must be looked up in maps. You tried this once and succeed, that’s good enough for a second attempt, what do you think?” He looked into John’s blue eyes, his face was mixed with encouragement and eager.  
For the first time John sincerely thanked Harry for the smart phone he got. He opened the Google map, and the right eye of London was right there, beside Westminster Bridge, in the shape of a glorious triangle, and in the middle where the eyeball was ripped would be their next destination.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock didn’t show off when they set feet under London Eye. He simply said “Buckingham Palace” to Lestrade when the latter’s mouth opened in double shock.  
“So I was not the only one in dark for 12 months.” John found this idea comfortable, he nodded to Lestrade, “Yes.”  
Lestrade nodded doubtfully, but without another word, he dismissed the EOD team. “I guess that’s beyond our power?” Then he asked.  
“Yes, and Microft is in charge of it.” The idea that Microft had to seek his help seemed to be pleasant for him, and now Sherlock was smiling.

“So, that’s the end of a day for me and my good doctor.” He motioned John to leave with him when Lestrade tried to say something.  
“Maybe we could have dinner sometime?” He shouted to the figures at last.  
“Not likely.” Before John could reply, Sherlock said without looking back.

6\. A Missing link  
Mrs. Hudson’s welcome was beyond their best expectation. She knocked them on heads, backs and shoulders.  
“Ouch.” John couldn’t help it when he got hit heavily on the injured shoulder.  
“You deserve this.” Mrs. Hudson was already in tears as well as l laughing. “You didn’t make a single visit to me…” with these words she left, obviously preparing tea and cookies. “Go upstairs, boys. You’d love what you see.”  
They exchanged a shocked face, what did she do to their dining room.  
And she did nothing, but kept it the way it was, only tidier.  
When Mrs. Hudson brought tea and cookies up, they each gave her a giant hug.

“So you didn’t come back at all, why?” When they were alone again, Sherlock said.  
But John was thinking something else. “You said I missed all the important hints.”  
“I didn’t. You did, if that’s what you mean.”  
“And you didn’t deny. You, Mr. Grammar didn’t correct it when the map is only one missing line.”  
A weird silence fell between them.  
“Good,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “Now I can see you progress in grammar, rather impression I’d say.”  
“You know what I’m talking, Sherlock,” John looked into his eyes, “And I know what the other missing pieces are.”  
John was satisfied to see Sherlock squirm a little uncomfortably under his gaze, and he went on, “The biggest piece I almost totally missed, what’s that all about. The murderers, the hints, the rumors with extraordinary accurate details hidden by police all over the papers and internet? You want to share your theory with me, or you would admit of total ignorance?”  
For a second, the detective seemed pricked. But he simply nod, “Go on, John.”  
“Do

Moriaty’s work or plan to seduce you appear. They knew you won’t watch it happen if you had the last breath on earth. And they are right. You come, and there is something waiting for you.  
He looked up to catch Sherlock’s face. “You already know where it is.”  
Sherlock said nothing.  
“I’d look it up on map, even without your guide.” With these words, John opened his laptop.  
He then heard a voice coming from back of his neck. “I regret to tell you about the map.”  
“Try to regret more.”  
“John?”  
“You know exactly what I mean.” John insisted, “And I know what the missing link is.”  
“You do?” Sherlock got stiff a bit, and dangerously narrowed his eyes towards John.  
“Donovan said once, and we all had this feeling. All the cases, dead bodies, horrible scars and riddles, they reminded us of Moriaty.” John said quietly. “Even he was dead.”  
Sherlock turned away his gaze from John.  
“That’s what all these about, isn’t it? He was behind it. His people are carrying his back-up plan in case you are alive, and for God’s sake, you are.”   
“And you seem disappointed.”  
“Don’t,” John took a deep breathe, “Don’t try to change the topic, and don’t you get me started on this, which I assure you would get you deserved. And now, just let me finish.”  
“John, Moriaty was dead, he got no followers. So once again, wrong.”  
“Because you are chasing after them, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you were on holiday while playing dead, because I won’t take it and driving taxi is by no means refreshing. Maybe Moriaty had no followers, but there must be people who want to take his method against you, and they seduced you out already. That’s my deduction; now tell me, Mr. Detective,” John tipped his head, “Am I wrong?”  
Sherlock stared at him for a long pause. Then he admitted with flatly, “I’d take it as a warm welcome.”  
Another pause. “Yes.” John said, opening his arms, “It is. Welcome back, Sherlock.” He hugged the detective a little on shoulder, as if changing his mind half way. Sherlock smiled, “And don’t call me Mr. Detective ever again, never.”

“So what’s his next move?” John made two cups of tea from the kitchen, asking.  
“What?”  
“Hey!” John said in disbelief. “His plan, Moriaty wanted to get you, his plan won’t stop here.”  
“Oh, that.” Sherlock looked as if just awake from daydreaming.  
“You are not trying to hide anything away from me, do you?” John cleared his throat, “You know something already. I thought we are clear that I’m in this time.”  
“Yes, you are.” Sherlock quickly stood up from sofa, “A long day and I’d like some sleep, good night, John.”  
John sat still, then shouted at his back, “I’d find it out anyway, on the map, as you’ve told me.”  
If John wasn’t mistaken, the detective’s figure shook a little, then firmly disappeared into his room.

“A nose, two eyes,” John murmured to himself, “Mouth seems to be a good start.”  
John tried mouth, ears, and brows. For a moment he remembered the man had said once, “I’d burn your heart”, then tried to locate a heart on the map, but soon gave up the idea. He looked closely at tangled lines of London map, till everything became a meaningless blur. Before he could notice, John fell asleep on the sofa.  
7\. Brain

The next morning, John woke up to see Sherlock standing by the window, like a portrait.  
“Morning.” John tried to bluff. “I found something interesting last night.”  
The detective turned his face towards John. His face was pale, his lip trembling. John’s heart got squeezed, “What’s that? Did you sleep at all last night?”  
“London Eye.” He said motionless.  
For a long time, two men gazed into each other’s eyes without move or speak. Then John said with great difficulty, “What?”  
“Mycroft’s people searched Buckingham thoroughly and found nothing. They turned to London Eye just in time.” He retreated a little then shook his head, “You can imagine the mock.”   
“No.” John couldn’t believe his ears. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective and brightest mind he ever knew, made a mistake.  
He was speechless for a long time. Then John laughed with relief, to his own surprise.  
“What?” Sherlock looked annoyed and hurt.  
“It’s nothing.” John said, reassuringly and surprisingly relaxed. “It is nothing, Sherlock.”  
“You are human. You make mistakes. It’s all right.” He smiled, “If you don’t mind, I’d make tea, and we can sit down on Moriaty’s next move, together. OK?”  
Sherlock looked at John, as miserable as a lost kid could be, as if John was somehow his source of help and warmth. He nodded. 

Ten minutes later, they were sitting face to face, each with a cup of tea in hand, and Sherlock said, “What’s your finding last night?”  
“Well,” John admitted in embarrass, then looked at Sherlock sincerely, “nothing at all. I can get nowhere without your help, really. Even the left eye case...”   
“No,” Sherlock interrupted him, “You did very well all by yourself.”  
“I mean it. Sherlock, you are the best.”  
The latter smiled shyly, that was another Sherlock from what John had known, but the latter didn’t mind. “So what did you try last night?”  
“Er, mouth, ears, eyebrows, heart, a bit actually, and none of them worked.”  
“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Not them. It is brain.”  
“Brain?”  
“Yes. Three organs are enough to suggest the location and scale of a face. By this Moriaty wanted to imply something deeper than skin. Brain or heart, and heart is far beyond a scaled map of face could reach.”  
“He said he’d burn you once.” Thinking this for a while, John pointed out slowly.  
“Yes, so I expect some kind of explosion.” Sherlock said briskly.  
“Like a trap?” John couldn’t believe what he was thinking.  
“Yes, to get me down.” Sherlock seemed appreciating John’s following well.  
“Where is it?” John didn’t get comfort at all.  
“You tell me.”  
As Sherlock instructed, John drew a line between the market and London Eye, and another line middle perpendicular to it which went through Faraday Garden. John examined carefully on its extension, where the brain should be.   
It took longer than John had expected. Moriaty was showing off his power, he would have chosen somewhere fancy, yet John didn’t find any place really that special. He checked the map again more closely while Sherlock began to tap the chair arm.  
Then John got somewhere.  
“Is that…” He hesitated, and Sherlock looked like some felid with ears up, “The International Press Center?”  
Sherlock lifted an inquiring brow.  
“I mean,” John’s heart sank, “You always said that, right? Everything comes in circle, there’s nothing new. Look at the street beside it whose name is Little New. Maybe that’s a hint, Moriaty wanted to challenge you with something new. And International Press Center has something to do with news, of course.”  
Sherlock spoke with a moving tone, “John, exact what I thought.”  
They stared at each other for a moment. The flat once again was filled with linkage between two partners, and John felt lucky to be one of them.  
“So I’ll call Lestrade?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“And I’d tell, well,” John hesitated, “ah, maybe they had already known?”  
Sherlock shook his head, “No, Mycroft hid it; he wanted me to thank.”  
John lowered his phone.  
“I prefer you telling them, indeed.” Sherlock said gently. “It’s all right, you said that.”   
And John did.

Lestrade sighed on the other side of the line. Then he suggested, “Maybe you can come for recording? I mean, alone.”  
But when John put down the phone, Sherlock had already reached for his coat.  
“I’ll go.” He shrugged, “I can take it.”  
“Actually that would be much easier without you,” John murmured to himself. Then he understood Sherlock’s decision to face critics and mocks. Much moved by his determination, John said nothing.

“Aha,” Anderson was on their way to Lestrade’s office, “look who it is. And guess what I’ve said.”  
Unlike Sherlock, John felt hard to show indifferent.  
“Stop this.” John warned him, and dragged Sherlock’s arm to get away from the scene as quickly as possible.  
But Anderson didn’t want to stop. On the contrary, he shouted at their backs. “You are wrong. You Are Wrong. I’m the right one. Admit this, you freak.”  
That was too much.  
“Fuck.” John made a sudden turn. He didn’t expect his voice to be this loud, but anyway he went on, “You are terrible enough even not making the biggest fool of yourself. Stop this, for God’s sake I warn you, and I mean it.”   
Anderson didn’t see this coming, and apparently startled from John’s sudden deed. Then Sherlock stepped forward and said quietly, “I’m wrong.” Then he turned around and walked directly to Lestrade’s office while John followed, relieved yet somehow heart-broken.

“What do you expect will happen in the International Press Center?” Lestrade asked them, all three with crossed brow.  
“Boom. Within 48 hours, according to existing frequency.”  
“And Moriaty planned to get you killed there?” Lestrade lifted a doubtful eyebrow, “You don’t necessarily show up.”  
“His plan would make sure of my existence. I won’t give up a try anyway.”  
“Yes, you will.” Lestrade shrugged, “We have much better men in this field. Trust us; we’d take care of it.”  
“Not likely.” Sherlock pointed out sharply.  
They stared at each other for a moment.  
“Yes, we will. Just go back home, and John, please keep an eye in him.”  
John did.

For a whole day they expect Lestrade to call, and there was none.  
Towards evening, the call came. Lestrade sounded frustrated from the other side of the line. He explained to them that they cleared all staff in that building and took a thorough check, no bomb was found.  
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” He finally asked.  
“We’d be there.” Silent during his speech, Sherlock simply replied.  
“But we are leaving…”  
“Leave.” With these words Sherlock hung up the line, then looked at John.  
“Shall we break into there?” John suggested.  
“No.” Sherlock smiled.

They really didn’t. The International Press Center were full of people making up the work delayed by bomb check, so they simply went in, and showed the front desk Lestrade’s ID card. The manager on duty frowned at their efficiency, but still allowed a second check as far as not disturbing anyone else.  
“Exactly what I need.” When they got into the elevator, Sherlock said to John. Then they went into different floors separately, looking for any suspicious details that ignored by police in the day.  
Half hour later, John went back to the entrance hall bare-handed. When he saw Sherlock getting out of the elevator with a grave look, his heart sank.  
Sherlock stopped him before he could inquiry. They got into a cab and went back to 221B, perfectly silent for the whole trip and the following evening.

8\. UNLOCK  
The next morning, John woke up to find Mycroft sitting in their living room. Sherlock was not there.  
“Good morning.” Mycroft greeted him, extremely annoyed.  
John shrugged and went into kitchen. When he came back with tea, Mycroft was in the same position. From what John saw, Mycroft was trying to explode his brother’s bedroom with telekinesis.  
“Sherlock!” He shouted at the bedroom’s door. 10 seconds later the detective showed up from the back of it, well-dressed as John relieved to find.  
The brothers stared into each other’s eyes with hatred.  
Mycroft gave in first. “My database gets hacked.” His tone was perfectly flat, yet most dangerous, “Someone broke into it, several times during last year.”  
“And you didn’t discover it until today?” Amazed at what he heard, John asked while Sherlock snorted with a sneer. “What’s stolen?”  
“Not stolen, seen.” Mycroft’s gaze still fixed on Sherlock.  
“You are not suspecting him, are you? It is Moriaty.” John defensed Sherlock in disbelief. He knew Sherlock delighted himself by irritating his brother, but not to that level, “Think about it, Mycroft, does your brother look like a…”  
“You know little about him, doctor.” Mycroft didn’t even looked at him, “Or his deed during the last year.”  
John got stuck. So Mycroft knew Sherlock’s fake death, too. Was he the only one that blacked out?  
For the first time Mycroft turned to him and smiled as if knowing what he was thinking, “Most likely.”   
Sherlock warned him, “Mycroft!”  
“My brother deemed you improper a candidate…”  
“Shut up, Mycroft!” The detective shouted this time. Then, “Out!”  
Mycroft stopped his speech, but unmoved. There was a gridlock, then three phones rang at the same time.   
Everyone reached for his own phone. Mycroft’s text was from nobody, and Sherlock and John’s were from Lestrade. They were the same, “Turn on the television.” And John did.

All channels were filled with a bold capital letter “U”.  
“What’s the fuck?” John turned to his laptop. The home page was replaced by a letter “N”.  
Then Sherlock turned on WAP, “L”.  
Three men looked at each other. Then Mycroft took a long breath, “What’s his plan, the…Moriaty?”  
Sherlock turned his gaze at him, not speaking.  
“Well, in this case.” Mycroft stood up, “Stop him before he release any of these confidential file.”  
“Why?” It was a refuse, rather than a question.  
“Your bills last year, pay them with the case, or I’ll pay them for you.” Mycroft simpered. “Good day, John.” He left the living room.

“It was not you, was it?” John asked Sherlock cautiously.  
“The hacker? Of course not, that’s his plan. Press Center, brilliant, he wanted to get them published.” Sherlock’s eyes were filled with eager of an upcoming battle when his phone rang.  
Lestrade simply said, “Come.”  
On the way to Scotland Yard, John found his phone connecting to normal Internet again. Every website was discussing the Media Disaster as having been named, and a piece of radio showed digital billboards in commercial centers were filled with “O”.  
“Unlock.” The detective sitting next to him replied to his unspoken question imperturbably.  
“What?”  
“Un-lock, disentangling me and releasing the government secrets. He loved puns.” He explained.  
“Sherlock.” John found it difficult to go on.  
His friend turned to him. “I won’t let neither happen, I promise. He failed last time, and will fail again.”  
John nodded.

In Scotland Yard, Lestrade showed them pictures sent from Press Center Printing Agency. “Every procedure was right, final newspaper turned out like this.” The newspaper in pictures piling on the printing machine read “C”. John gave out a heavy sigh.  
“I see.” Sherlock emphasized on the “C” with some kind of amusement. “And I expect the K in International Press Center. We must have missed something. Quick, John.”  
He strode out, and John followed him.  
Lestrade shouted to their back, “I’ll send for the EOD team.” Then he added reluctantly, “Again.”  
John’s heart sank deeper hearing this. He almost had forgotten Moriaty’s promise to burn the detective, and now he was reminded of that.  
“Yes, please.” He said this quietly to Lestrade, and to himself.

 

The International Press Center was entirely rough and tumble. The manager refused to see them until 16:00, one hours after their request. To John’s surprise, Sherlock waited patiently in café.  
When asked, he simply said, “They are figuring out in their way.”  
Then the manager showed up.  
“We tried to fix the problem. We printed newspaper again. Every step was right, everyone can guarantee that. And it turned out to be…” He picked up the front page, still having a bold capital C on it.  
“Virus?” Sherlock suggested.  
“Very clever one.” The manager shook his head in disbelief, “Sample edition was all right, and final printing was like this.”  
“Have you tried reset printing system?” John asked.  
“The first thing we tried.” The manager shrugged, “Not work.”  
“All the computers?”  
The manager sneered faintly. “That’s impossible. We are talking about thousands of them here and we get other work to do, more work than ever. Don’t even think about it. And the virus doesn’t necessarily come from inside.”  
“You mean the internet. Tried to cut it off?”  
“No.” The manager shook again. “Never think about it.”  
John sighed. 

“What do you think?” John asked Sherlock when they were alone, “Could it be from the Internet, like some directional bomb?”  
“Probably.” Sherlock’s eyes were behind shadows. “That’s not important anyway. A computer here is planted with a key; we are going to find it.”  
“How? You heard what he said, there are thousands of them.”  
“Think, John. Mycroft’s files.”  
“Yes?”  
“The newspaper will be printed out at any minute, can’t you see? They can’t risk posting confidential files to the internet, in fear of being track down or hacked. So they put them in a hard drive, usb, anything like that. Where? Connected to a computer in Press Center net, to replace the headlines right when the final newspaper gets printed, so they would never risk shutting it down.” He explained thoughtfully.   
“And that’s the key?” John tried to follow, “I thought the key would be a trap… for you.”  
“Yes, it could be both. Get me down was his final purpose, anyway. And I can’t sit and watch he won my dearest brother.” He tipped his head a little, as if serious considering its possibility, then got himself awake from day dreaming. “Where is Lestrade, I need him in person.”

Half an hour later, Lestrade came. In 5 minutes, everyone in the Press Center was busy saving files. Another 5 minutes passed, all computer wires were taken off.  
“So,” Lestrade looked at Sherlock, the furious manager standing by him, “What’s the next step?”  
“Wait.” He replied, examining network transition data closely, and pointing at one of them, “Which segment is it for?”  
The technical assistance bent over to see, “Wireless network, actually. Do you need me to shut it down?”  
“No.” Sherlock and John shouted at the same time. The disconnection to network might trigger the key to explosion, better to let it happen after they located and removed it.  
The next 40 minutes, all the policemen searched every room in the building, each holding IR Detecting Sensor in hand. Whatever appearance the key might look like, it couldn’t fake in network connection or radiation. But all the computers were deadly shut.

“The roof.” Finally Sherlock said.  
He headed to the lift. John followed while the detective stopped, “Lestrade, please come.”  
Three of them went onto the roof. Dawn has fallen on the old City of London. From where they stood, John could see Bart’s and streets he was familiar with, yet the feeling was strange. Was there really a trap for a brilliant young friend here, and might take their lives any minute from now. For a second John felt like the whole city was declaring upon them, and Lestride’s shout startled him out of the illusion.  
John walked to him and Sherlock. They were around a tablet computer. A factotum initial K was showing off on its screen.  
John came over to take a closer look. Moriaty’s followers didn’t even bother to hide the exploder. It was right under the computer, along with all kinds of sensors as they could recognize.  
No one dared to pick any of them up. Then John whispered to Lestrade as quietly as possible. “Get the EOD.” Lestrade walked to the lift soundlessly.  
The last sunray disappeared from horizon, the sky was darkening quickly. John was again distracted by the grand farewell of the day, when Sherlock bent and touched the screen before John could stop him.  
Nothing happened for a second. Then the letter K began to dissolve, and solemnly lasers were shooting out from the computer under the night sky, mingling with each other around them.  
Oddly enough, Sherlock didn’t seem startled. He just stood upright and said to John, “A cage, obviously. Please leave.”  
“No.” John replied without hesitation.  
“It’s for me.”  
“No.” John added, “I’ll be with you.”  
“Trust me, John. Leave.” Sherlock said when Lestrade came back to the roof with two men, obviously freaked out by what they saw.  
“Lestrade, get John away.” He shouted to the inspector when John saw words appearing on the screen. “Welcome, Sir Bors de Ganis.” Then finger prints appeared side by side in the shape of open hands. Fingerprint detection for what…  
“What’s the…” He was too concentrating to notice Sherlock’s upcoming push. The next second he stumbled out the laser cage and was seized by Lestrade.  
“Lestrade.” John protested when Sherlock gave out orders, “Everyone leave here, and clear the whole building.” The lasers were getting thicker and thicker, John could barely see the figure of detective through its net.  
“We get you a protection dress, sir.” One policeman said.  
“Seriously, you think that could protect me from explosion?” Judging from what they heard, Sherlock had already knelt down to the computer.  
“Sherlock!” John shouted to him. Then Sherlock spoke again, his voice full of excitement. “Tell Mycroft don’t worry about his stupid files any more, they get self-destroyed…” He paused for a second, “Here comes the countdown.”  
“Sherlock!” John tried to get rid of Lestrade’s seize but the inspector was professional.  
“Ok, hand me the protect dress. And John, leave.” A policeman stepped forward to pass the protection dress to Sherlock, both carefully avoided touching the beaming laser.  
Then John was dragged away.

Now anything could happen at any second while John stood outside of Lestrade’s car, watching the roof where Sherlock was from a safe distance. 1 minute passed, 2 minutes passed, the laser cage was still blazing; too blaze to see the figure of friend through it. Nothing happened, that was the best news John could wish for, but still, any minute then, anything might happen.  
“I can’t believe we missed the roof.” John said.  
“No, it wasn’t there yesterday, I assure you.” Lestrade corrected him, “I’m pretty sure we search the roof.”  
John shook his head to himself. Of course it wasn’t, otherwise Sherlock wouldn’t have missed it. He was marvelous, incredible, amazing…  
John couldn’t help his mind drifting away. A year ago he thought he had lost his friend forever, and he was losing him any minute now. It was like some sick joke, while once again John himself could not help with anything.  
“Sherlock.” He murmured. Lestrade looked at him worriedly.  
“Sherlock.” John thought up how he met Sherlock again in that taxi while he was making up his mind to the London Eye. He was not good enough, but at least he was not a coward. Suddenly he began to stride in his quickest pace.  
“What?” Lestrade warned him, “I know what you are doing, stop and come back.”  
“I was a soldier,” John said firmly without looking back. “I know bomb.”  
Lestrade took him back to the Press Center. He said nothing all the way, but when John got out of the car, Lestrade nodded to him, “See you two later.”  
John nodded back, “See you.”

He went directly to the top floor and to the laser net. The blazing light was blinding him, yet he stepped towards it steadily. Sherlock would be mad at him when he saw him coming, but John wouldn’t give that a damn.  
He stepped in.   
His blood ran frozen.  
The detective was not there, the counting down was stopped and wires were cut.  
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” After a blank second, John shouted to himself. He suddenly understood why Sherlock insist him leaving, why nothing was found in previous search. Fuck the bloody bastard and the whole shit about London Eye mistake.   
Little New Street. Sherlock cheated on him, no wonder he was so encouraging. He should have felt something at that time, but John missed that. Now he lost trace of Sherlock.

John ran back to the ground floor. Lestrade’s car was still there waiting.  
“What happened?” Lestrade looked shocked, “Where is he?”  
John got into the car, his voice was steady while his face all pale. “Show me a map.”  
The Buckingham Place was the right eye, of course! The market was the left right, the Faraday Garden was the nose. John drew lines between them with his figure, and turned the map a little for a better examination. Like a magic, suddenly Waterloo Bridge became an axis of the winding River Thames, Old London and Westminster City was symmetrical with each other, each having an eye at center and along the axis was…  
“Brain.” John thought, “You really should not let me know this.”   
“Great British Museum.” He told Lestrade, leaning forward for whatever to come.

9\. Feather and heart  
Things went smoothly as he had expected. He set the device on roof right under people’s nose, yet no one found that out. He got John away, so no one could find the truth, at least not within one hour. Sherlock sneaked out the laser cage he set for himself as a cloak, went down the empty Press Center building and got into a cab.  
The front yard of Great British Museum was dark and empty. Sherlock had already shut down its security system. He went into the gate without making any sound. Something he learned from Moriaty, and now he was going to meet an old friend of him.  
Sherlock smiled in the dark entrance hall. No one was shooting at him, otherwise he’d see laser.  
“I’m here.” He shouted to the darkness.  
“Colonel Moran, nice to meet you.” He shouted again. “Your boss would appreciate your loyalty, and I’m sure you’ll get his thanks soon, in person.”  
There was no reply. It was a hide-and-seek game. During his one year tracking down Moriaty’s criminal organization, Colonel Moran was the most difficult gamer, who played the game so devotedly that not even spare to kill partners. After the last attempt where Sherlock almost got him, the ex-colonel disappeared into the air, and now he was the last losing end of Moriaty’s achievement on earth.   
Moran would love to settle him once for all, and so was Sherlock. He had waited for this a long time, and wouldn’t let the chance go by.  
Sherlock’s eye got used to the dim light casting down from the ceiling of Great Court and marched quietly onwards. If Moran didn’t come to see him, he’d go to see him. Hide and seek, this time he’d play a hunter.  
A flash. Sherlock’s eye caught something, tiny, grey, floating down in carefree slowness. A feather, a fluff.   
“Good to see you,” Sherlock said, “I bring a gift to you, too.” He held the gun tight in his palm.  
Something floating down. A fluff again.  
“Ceilings, he hid somewhere near the ceiling.” Sherlock corrected himself then, “Not likely, otherwise could be seen.”  
“But he hid feather near the ceiling.” Then his eye caught another one, “Or they were just floating everywhere.”  
“Feather.” Sherlock suddenly smiled. “You want to weigh my heart, or you just want to burn it?” Without hesitation, he walked towards the Egyptian Hall.

“I see you already find a coffin for everlasting life, or death I might say?” He walked around the Rosetta stone, not surprised to see a stone coffin’s cover was removed, forming a gap big enough for an adult to get out.  
There was nobody in this hall. Sherlock marched upstairs, and stopped by the Book of the Dead. Even in the darkness he knew the trial of heart weighing, and he knew eyes were fixed on him.   
“Why don’t you shoot?” He raised his voice, “Out of respect to history, I may guess? Or you were just without a gun, security check, sorry to know that.”  
He suddenly turned around and turned the flash light on, and Moran was standing right in the light.  
“Good evening.” Sherlock smiled. “Glad to see you.” His gun pointed at Moran steadily.  
Moran suddenly made a jump to him, obviously to reach for the gun.  
Sherlock got out of his way, gun stilling tightly holding in palm. He didn’t want to shoot in exhibition hall, and he knew Moran would take advantage of it.  
But to his surprise, Moran began to run to the door. A trap, yet Sherlock wouldn’t let the chance go by. He chased after him, prepared to shot at any minute now.  
Moran turned into an empty corridor. Great chance! The first shot missed his figure, but Moran leaped a little after the second shot. He got him, he got him. Sherlock ran into the corridor in his full speed.  
Feather, millions of them, suddenly fell down from the ceiling. Sherlock tripped a little when sensing this, and soon found himself trapped. In the heavy snow of feather, he could barely breathe, and his sight lost depth. He ran to the direction of exit, and banged himself on the door. He was locked in the corridor.  
Sherlock turned around, trying to find the way back. He reached a wall, and tried to run parallel to it, while holding his breath as much as possible.  
The feathers fell down with aged dust. Long prepared trap of course, maybe several months or even longer.  
A burned smell appeared in the air. Before he could recognize it, all feathers were on fire, turning into floating ashes in no time. Sherlock stopped his step and looking up.  
Feathers still fell down, loads of them, burned up even before they reached the ground, like a rain of fire. His skin hurt with heat. The breath became difficult, then choking, then impossible. He gave up struggling his way to the other end of corridor any more, knowing the quickly decreasing of fresh air was partially because of the doors closed on both sides.  
“He got me burned in feathers, heart and whole.” He said to himself. “Use feathers heavier than a heart could possibly be. Neat yet sarcastic.”  
And feathers were still falling down. The fire got smaller since the lack of oxygen.   
Sherlock fell down softly, back leaning on the wall. His last idea was he should not have cut off the security system so thoroughly, otherwise there would be water.

The gate behind the colonnade was slightly open.  
“He is here.” John shouted to Lestrade, “Send over your people.” Then he ran into the museum.  
It was dark; John used several seconds to get used to it, and fumbled his way. Not knowing what was waiting, John decided to keep as quiet as possible. Then he heard a dull sound of gun fire somewhere inside. John ran to that direction, totally forgot his caution. He had already stupidly lost 20 minutes waiting at the Press Center, now he could afford no delay. Where was Sherlock?  
The second gun shot was much near, and John could tell it was from above. John ran into the nearest staircase he met, and then John heard someone entered the same staircase from upper floor. He held his breath and waited.  
Someone was moving downstairs with a lame leg. The steps were heavy and slow, but steady, and there was no gasping caused by pain. Strong, badly injured, prudent and controlled…  
“A soldier.” John thought to himself, trying to hide behind shadow of armrest. The figure came nearer and nearer. Now John was sure it was not Sherlock. He rushed to it and knocked the back of his head with strength and precision of a surgeon. The man apparently didn’t see this coming, yet he didn’t fell down and began to fight back at once. His injury made him difficult to turn and John took advantage of this. He jumped to his back and kicked the knee of the lame leg, finally knocked him down. The next second, John stamped on his back and cuffed his both hands. He took the handcuff from Lestrade on the way here, hopefully the latter wouldn’t mind.  
“Where is Sherlock?” He strangled the man’s neck, adding the strength little by little.  
To his astonishment, the man chuckled in broken voice.   
“If Sherlock shot him, he should already show up.” John realized. He stood up suddenly, and gave a deadly kick on the back of the man’s head again, then ran upstairs.  
The man was from the first floor. John ran into it.   
There was a strange smell of burned fur in the air which made John’s blood frozen.  
“Sherlock, Sherlock.” He shouted and ran. There was no fire in sight, and the smell was so thin, it must be some locked place. John took out his phone to cast light, searched for every possible corner. The smell became stronger; he could almost feel the heat in air when he found a door stuck by wood blocks.  
“Sherlock!” He removed the blocks and pulled the door wide open. The dim light from his phone cast on feathers on walls and floors. Millions of feather piled quietly and harmlessly on the floor, stirred lazily by each of his step. And black ashes were turned up from underneath.  
“Sherlock.” John tried not to imagine what the detective would be like when he found him. “Sherlock.” His voice became trembled and tearful. How long had passed since the last shot, five minutes? Ten?   
The further he went in, the choked he got. The air was terribly thin, no wonder so many feathers were left unburned.  
“Sherlock…Sherlock…” He moved cautiously, trying not to stir too much feature in fear of getting his sight blocked. “Where were you?”  
Then he saw a slight bulge of feathers near the other end of the corridor. John began to run to it. “Sherlock!” He found the lifeless body underneath. “Sherlock.” John pulled him back the way he came, knowing the nearer door must be blocked from the other side.  
“Sherlock! Can you hear me?” He shouted again and again, not realizing tears dripping down his face. “Sherlock! Talk to me!”  
Once they were out of the hell-like corridor, John realized Sherlock was in the protection dress. Much relieved by this finding, he dragged off the mask and tested his breath. Nothing. Heart beats, very faint.   
Without any hesitation, John pushed Sherlock’s head backwards to keep the air tube wide open. Then he pressed on Sherlock’s chest in regular heart beat pace for 20 times. “Sherlock!” No response. John leaned over to give him rescue breathing. Then another 20 presses, then another rescue breathing. John could not help to repeat this in mind, “This man is alive, still alive. I can bring him back, I know.” A protection dress is not enough to shield people from explosion, but should be enough from burning feathers. All what he needed was more oxygen.   
After the forth rescue breathing, John detected a shallow breath from Sherlock. He carried on the aid for the fifth time, and made sure that Sherlock was breathing again.  
John sat backwards on his own feet, “Sherlock, can you hear me? Talk. Don’t fall asleep.” His finger trembled with relief, and reached to the phone.  
“Lestrade, I find Sherlock. He needs an ambulance.” He looked down at Sherlock’s face, surprised to see the detectives’ eyes open.  
“A blanket, if he insists I get shocked.” Sherlock whispered, his lips moved with great difficulty.  
“You are the single most stupid person I’ve ever known.” After a while, John found his voice back, and trying to contain as much anger as possible in it, instead of pure joy.  
Sherlock smiled faintly, “You could tell.”

When the ambulance came, Sherlock could already sit up by himself. He wore an orange blanket.  
“A fake death and a fake mistake, then a fake case.” John shouted at him, “I’d never believe you. And I don’t only mean your word.”  
“Don’t be that harsh.” Sherlock lifted up his blanket slightly, “See, I’m in a blanket, I get shocked.”  
“Ok, all right.” John strode away without looking back, “I’d send Donovan and Anderson here to take pictures.”  
When he was sure no one was looking, John buried his face in hands, swiping off joyful tears. Then he pulled himself together and walked back, Donovan and Anderson were already there taking phones. Sherlock winked at him as if knowing why he was away  
“Damn it.” John couldn’t help a smile on lips.  
10\. Face of London  
It was three days later when John got his everything moved back to 221B, Baker Street.  
“You’d take a long way to work every day.” Sherlock sat in his sofa when John came back from shopping.  
After staring at him for several seconds, John decided to inform him directly, “I close my clinic, if that’s what you mean.”  
“Oh.” Sherlock didn’t look surprised at all.  
“I’d take it as an apology.” John turned to kitchen.  
“An apology for what?”  
“For your stupidity.” John thought about it for a while, “I’d never forgive you. Everyone except me knew about your fake death…”  
“You were the only one knowing my fake case,” Sherlock interrupted him, and added rather disapprovingly, “If you didn’t tell Lestrade.”  
“Yes, and watch you killed by your own stupidity.” John came out with tea, then he changed the topic, “There are so many coincidence in London Map, aren’t there?”  
“No.” Sherlock repeated.  
“Hey…” John protested, “Eyes and nose…”  
“The museum is in no case looking like a brain, how did you find it?”  
“Ur,” John got stuck a little. “It was there, right where it should be…”  
“Exactly.” Sherlock turned to him and smiled, “Locations, not key, were key to these riddles. What did you find on the way to museum?” He looked at John, a weird eager sparkling in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t find anything.”  
“Well. I found,” John recalled, “Waterloo Bridge was a symmetric axis of the old city of London and Westminster, and River Thames…”  
“River Thames made a turn there 2 thousand years ago just the way it does now, and Old London and Westminster both located where goods and people could be landed directly from ship. They were symmetric by nature, not by chance. Moriaty just picked out the center of which to be eyes. Remember where the dead bodies were found?”  
“London Bridge and Westminster Bridge… They suggested the old cities?” John began to follow.  
“Point at them, actually.” Sherlock replied.  
“But the nose and brain?”  
“You could possibly expect something to happen on the axis, that’s a practical rule in every field. I’d say again, the structure of London is there, whether it looked like a face or not.”  
“But the Little New Street…” John protested.  
“Well, that’s another rule.” Sherlock smiled, “Man could always find proof for what they believe in.”

“You should be burned, in features.” Holding back himself from punching that elated face, John said indignantly at last.  
“Well, that.” Sherlock replied indifferently, “above his average level, I’d say, but not as well as the trap I designed for myself, too artistic.”  
“And yours too arrogant.” John commented deliberately. “Breaking into Mycroft’s database, threaten the country and government, set bomb on Press Center… What’s that?”  
“Well, I feast myself a little during last year. Something I learned from Moriaty, actually.” Sherlock smiled.  
“Right. Try Swiss Bank next time.” John interrupted himself capturing Sherlock’s look. “No, don’t, I’m kidding.”  
“Well.” After a second the latter admitted disappointedly, “won’t be more challenging than Mycroft’s, anyway.”  
John gave out a sigh of relief.   
11\. Present and Extra Bonus  
The doorbell rang. John stood up to answer it.   
There stood Mycroft.  
“Good morning, John.” His stare was fixing on Sherlock’s face. “I have a little present for you.”  
“Mycroft.” Sherlock said with his most dangerous voice, which aroused John’s curiosity.  
“What’s that?” He asked.  
“A souvenir from Great British Museum, actually.” Mycroft smiled to John. “I think you should have it.”  
“Well, that’s considerate.” John was total confused, “But why?”  
“For your close examination to the fire scene.” Mycroft handed John a well decorated box.  
John hesitated. Mycroft meant something he doesn’t understand yet. The next second Sherlock grabbed the box away.  
“No.” John heard himself shouting, “That’s for me. I’ll have it.” He decided to ignore the foxy smile on Mycroft’s face. There was something hidden from him again, he made his mind to find it out.  
“John?” Sherlock warned him, but John insisted. Finally, in extreme reluctance, Sherlock handed over the box  
It was heavy. John shook it in hand; a cylinder. He could almost feel the heat from Sherlock’s gaze when he opened the box, then he picked up a delicate tea caddy, decorated with images from the book of dead.  
“Oh.” John examined it carefully. It was just a tea caddy, an expensive one though. “Well, good… Thanks.” He looked at both Holmeses in turns, finally decided to find a right place for this fancy thingy in kitchen, and set off for it.  
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Mycroft smiled to his brother, the latter’s eyes were shooting fire. “I add the oxygen bottle to my own collection. What a pity they didn’t let you to re-examine the fire scene, isn’t it?”  
Sherlock didn’t speak.  
“I think we can sit down and talk about your experience as hacker.” Mycroft’s smile was even bigger when John came back. “Soon enough.”   
Then he smiled to John, “Thank you for all what you did. Good day.” Then he left. 

“All what I did? What did he mean?” John gave up interpreting Mycroft’s words all by himself after five minutes.  
“You saved my life, of course.”  
John looked up. The detective was looking at him, sincerely. “You did.”  
“Yes, a bit.” John admitted. “You recovered surprisingly well, I’d say.”  
“For you didn’t give me up in the first place.” The detective pointed out keenly. “Rescue breath. Good job!”  
“Ur.” John got stuck, his face burned unnecessarily. “That was…”  
“You don’t have to explain.” Sherlock assured him.  
“No, I don’t.” John decided to shut up and went back to the kitchen while Sherlock typed “Technically kissed” into his phone.  
The reply came soon; Lestrade’s upset was full of the screen. “You win.”  
Sherlock sprang up from his sofa.  
“John?” He shouted, “Want to go some good restaurants? I get 50 pounds from Lestrade this time.”  
“For the case?” John turned to him from kitchen, frowned in doubt.  
“Kisses, actually.” Sherlock broke into a sly grin.

“So,” Lestrade checked his notebook, “Everyone in this room owes my 10 pounds except for Donovan, 20; and Anderson, 25.”  
“You know we could report this.” Anderson said.  
“Not if this was actually your idea.” Lestrade reminded him kindly. 

Everything seemed back to a better square one with extra bonus. By the end of the day, not only one person got this feeling.


End file.
